


Secrets and lies

by StealingPennies



Category: Primeval
Genre: Angst, F/M, Past Relationship(s), Trope Bingo Round 3, Trope Subversion/Inversion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-27 02:11:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1711181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StealingPennies/pseuds/StealingPennies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>She called herself Chris. It didn't suit her. She didn't look the type for nicknames.</i><br/>Lester is back in Oxford searching for potential recruits to the ministry. Christine is determined to one of the chosen few.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secrets and lies

**Author's Note:**

> AN: Christine’s family background is taken from Primeval Wiki. This story is set sometime in the 90s when mobiles were still a rarity and a desktop computer actually covered the entire desktop.  
> AN2: Everyone’s younger in this story so hopefully not out of character but perhaps not yet fully the people they become.  
> AN3: Fills the Trope Bingo Square Fake Relationship.

*  
 **SECRETS AND LIES**

She called herself Chris. It didn’t suit her. She didn’t look the type for nicknames. 

Lester watched her across the room for the better part of an hour, debating whether to make a move or not. Admittedly he was in Oxford– back in Oxford - to meet people but polite chatter was not the first thing on his mind when he saw her. Nor even impolite chatter. He wanted to take her to bed. 

That was unusual. Not the desire, but the reckless impulse to carry it through without weighing up risks and potential consequences. He had as much appreciation for aesthetics as the next man but his head had always ruled his cock. He’d been called cold but the reality was he just took cautious to its farthest extremes and so far he’d never had cause to regret it. But there was something about her, some stray recognition that tugged at Lester’s mind. She seemed familiar even though he knew for certain that they had never met. 

In the event, she took the decision out of his hands and approached him first carrying a pint glass in each hand. She was tall for a woman, dark-haired and dark-eyed, wearing jeans and a man’s white shirt unbuttoned to show off the string of pearls falling between the hollow of her breasts. 

“You looked thirsty,” she said simply, handing over the brimming glass. She met his gaze full-on with no pretence of coyness.

You look beautiful his mind supplied. His mouth, civil-service trained, replied only, “Thank you.”

Her perfume drifted over to him - something expensive and not-quite-sweet. In the background someone had put on a CD and the strains of Pulp’s _Common People_ faded in and out through the buzz of conversations. It was too hot in the room. 

Eight years ago as a newly-arrived undergraduate, combining the naivety of an only child and a boys-only education, Lester would have been overwhelmed at being so blatantly propositioned. Four years back, having got over the initial shock that women could find him attractive, he would have been flattered and either accepted the proposal or gracefully declined. These days, doing nameless things for the less-publicised departments of government, he’d once again learned to regard everyone with suspicion. It was clear that Chris wanted something. It wasn’t yet clear what that something was. That made her interesting as well as attractive. It was, he had found, a startlingly rare combination.

“James,” said Lester since she was staring at him and introductions seemed to be called for. He switched his pint to his left hand and proffered his right. She took it in a firm grip. “I’m Chris.”

When she let go Lester could feel the ghost touch of her hand lingering against his own. He imagined reaching out for her again, bringing the slim fingers up to his lips. Her expression watching him was both pleased and knowing. He wondered what his own face gave away. 

“James…Jamie…Jim…” she tried, before falling back on his full name. “James. You don’t look like a Jim.”

“You don’t look like a Chris,” he countered, amicably. 

Her lips curved upwards and she flicked her hair back in a deliberately provocative gesture. “Cristelle? Christabelle? Perhaps a Crimson?” 

Lester had met all these names during his time at Oxford. He said nothing having learned the power of silence.

“Or even a Christine?” she asked after a moment conceding defeat.

“Christine suits you,” he said, and knew it to be true even though they had just met.

“Christine, then, you can call me Christine if you like. It’s—“ She bit off whatever it was she was going to say and covered the slip with a sip of her drink. It didn’t matter because Lester already completed the rest of the sentence and knew he had literally stepped in a minefield.

_‘..what my family used to call me.’_

She was familiar because in a sense he already knew her. The whole country knew her. Or at least knew of her. The story was a few years old but had been violent and shocking enough to engage the tabloids for several weeks. She looked nothing like the white-faced schoolgirl flanked by uniform police that had featured so prominently in the tabloid newspapers.

She was one of the reasons he was here.

Christine Johnson, IRA orphan – her father and sister had been blown up in a botched bombing some four years earlier. She was on the list. Brains and a possible emotional connection that could be tapped -- it could be just the combination the department was looking for. There were other names there too: five men and two women. Just a few suggestions, James, look around and let us know your impressions. No pressure. Nothing formal. At this stage we’re just getting ideas. He knew the drill. The real selection process for the Ministry never took place at via Situations Vacant. He’d been on the other side of the recruitment process at one time although he hadn’t realised it until later. He should have recognised her but the grainy photos of the distraught teen bore little resemblance to the self-contained woman facing him now. He berated himself for not realising earlier.

Lester’s official reason for being here was an invitation to give a talk on graduate careers in the civil service. The one you were allowed to talk about. That and to do a bit of catching up with old acquaintances. Here Lester felt a small twinge of conscience that he had blatantly imposed on the brother of one of his own college friends for an invitation to this party. Some of the post-graduates overlapped his time as a student but it still felt wrong. He didn’t belong. Essays and tutorials no longer held sway and he was now – literally - part of the establishment.

“Christ, I feel old.” Will had commented as they strolled through the gateway that separated Rose Lane from Christ Church Meadow. Students sprawled on the manicured lawns or played ball games under the openly watchful gaze and whirring videos of scores of visiting tourists.

“It does feel strange,” agreed Lester. “If it helps you don’t look a day over thirty and you’re rich which counts for a lot.”

“Fuck off,” replied Will, who at 25 was regularly pictured amongst Tatler’s most eligible men. “Still that’s one small thing in our favour. We’re not going to be the kind of pricks who bang on and on about school and college and spend the rest of our lives looking backwards and trying to pull ever younger totty.” He paused and grinned across at Lester, “Well, maybe the totty. Me, that is, you’re clearly destined for monogamy.”

“Thanks,” said Lester. “I think.”

Will was with him now, talking to his younger brother, Simon, and his mates about rugby. There was a lot of good-natured shouting and back-patting. Catching Lester’s eye across the bar Will lifted his glass in salute with a small glance at Christine and an infinitesimally raised eyebrow because while Will might look and occasionally sound like the archetypal occupant of the Bullingdon Club he was neither boorish, nor stupid, and there was a reason his family’s saddlery business was slowly edging away from insolvency. Lester did not respond.

Christine recovered herself and began talking about Oxford. Recognising that any attempt at sympathy would be abhorrent Lester took the cue and asked her about her work.

She loved her subject, natural sciences. The enthusiasm was clearly unfeigned and she talked at length about her dissertation. Lester knew enough about the area to ask relevant questions if not to fully understand the finer points of some of the answers. His own degree had been in PPE. Outside of the academic she was both more guarded and more calculating. She clearly wanted to make a good impression beyond that guaranteed by good looks.

She asked questions in turn enquiring about his time at Oxford and life in London, making sympathetic noises when he groused about the impossibility of finding affordable accommodation in the capital. With the insurance pay-out she must have received money was clearly not an issue for Christine but Lester did not mention this. He did not mention her past at all.

The music changed into something Lester didn’t recognise. 

He really needed to circulate more and talk to some of the other people here. He was wondering how to ask her if they could meet again when, once more, she took the initiative out of his hands. 

“I need to go and prepare for a tutorial,” she said with a small moue of regret. “Are you still here tomorrow?” At Lester’s nod she continued. “We could meet if you liked.”

He would like, very much so, but wasn’t sure what his schedule was. There were meetings both before and after his talk and after that murmurings had been made about dinner. It was an honest rather than a polite excuse and she seemed to accept that. 

She scribbled a phoned number down. “Call me.”

“I’ll do that,” he promised, tucking the paper into the fold of his wallet. 

She smiled. Like everything else about her it was controlled – a precise measure of happiness appropriate to the occasion. He wondered what her real smile would look like and had a sudden desire to not just to see but to the one responsible for invoking it.

She shook his hand again at parting as if they’d been at a business meeting. Lester supposed in a way they had. He watched her until she had left the room and then went to re-join Will at the bar. There were six other names on the list. If he played his cards right he could probably either meet or casually engineer some candid opinions on most of his candidates.

Cards were not needed. Simon laughed at Lester’s approach and made room for him along the polished wooden counter of the bar.

“Damn it, James! You’ve disappointed me, I really thought you were in there, being a man from the Ministry and all. But no, it looks like you’ve been frozen out by the ice queen just as thoroughly as the rest of us.” 

Lester raised his eyebrows but said only, “She had some work to do.”

A tousle-haired rugby shirted boy who was probably called Henry snorted, “She’s always got some work to do. Many have tried but no one’s successfully climbed the frozen slopes and lived to tell the tale. There’s a book on the first person who’ll manage to sleep with her - lots of lovely lolly for the winner. And a shag, of course, assuming she hasn’t bitten your cock off like a praying mantis.”

“Head,” said Lester.

‘Henry’ looked confused. “You-what?”

“A praying mantis will bite your head off,” explained Lester gently. “Not that it matters much if you keep your brains elsewhere.”

Confusion was replaced by a vague belligerence. “Whatever, it was only…a meta…alle..meta… an example. We’ve all had a punt but there’s no fishing in that stream. She’s dead inside.”

*

It was some time after midnight when Lester got back to his hotel. Will was staying with Simon and Lester had had an offer of a spare bed but he preferred not to stay in student accommodation. He’d served his time and he figured the ministry owed him basic en-suite comfort at least. He ran his fingers though his hair and winced at the sudden stink of cigarettes the gesture invoked. He’d have to wash it before bed. His clothes would need drycleaning too. 

Thanks to Simon’s guileless sociability Lester had met three of the men and the second woman on his list but none had made an impression. The spark was missing. He’d give his talk tomorrow after which he’d arranged to meet with some of the college tutors. The evening was still free. He’d been intending on spending it with Will and Simon and casually gathering more information on current students. Perhaps someone who had not been on his original list would make an impression. Now, however, he pulled out Christine’s phone number from his pocket and wondered how unprofessional it would be to ring at this hour. Very, he decided, but called anyway. 

Christine was out. He left a message. He wondered if she’d bother ringing back.

*

She didn’t return his call but she was waiting in the panelled hall as he came out from giving his talk the next day. 

“You should have come in,” he said. “At least you could have sat down.”

She shrugged. “Administration is boring. Why sit in an office filing reports when you can be in a lab making real discoveries?”

Lester grinned at her tone. “When you put it like that there’s no contest. But not all civil service work is administration.”

“Is yours?” she asked archly slipping her hand through the crook of his arm.

He was surprised by the gesture. Quite apart from the crude conclusions of yesterday’s bar-talk she was clearly not a touchy kind of person and yet the arm resting on his felt very natural. 

“Is it?” she repeated.

“Mainly administration?” asked Lester. “Yes. Sorry to disappoint you. James Bond is strictly a fictional construct.”

“Whereas James Lester is an actual person,” she replied. “In hand - she slid her arm down to grasp his fingers - is always worth more than in bush.” 

He laughed and squeezed her hand before letting go.

He had a meeting to attend and a last-minute invitation to a formal dinner but they arranged to meet about nine at his hotel. It would be quieter there, she suggested, more private. He tried not to speculate on what that mean. He fulfilled his obligations conscientiously keeping up his share of the conversation and asking the right questions. No one seemed to guess his impatience. His old tutor predicted a brilliant future. Lester smiled modestly but not disagree.

*

She’d been wearing jeans earlier but when met they again Christine was wearing a blue dress accessorised once again with the long pearl necklace.

“Your favourite,” he asked gesturing towards the beads.

Her face lit up obviously pleased that he’d remembered. “Yes. It was a gift for my eighteenth birthday. I went to Bond Street and picked them out all the individual pearls and the jeweller strung them for me. I got the matching earrings when my A-levels results came out.”

“I got a watch for eighteenth birthday,” said Lester. “And nothing at all for my A levels beyond a ‘Well done’. Your family must have been very proud.”

“I’d like to think so,” she said without faltering. “At any rate they were generous.”

It wasn’t until he stood at the bar waiting to be served that Lester that realised that once again he’d trespassed on tragedy. Her family must been killed some time before both her birthday and her exams. Perhaps an aunt? He ordered champagne and tried not to think about the reasoning for his extravagant gesture.

“Nice! But isn’t this a bit extravagant?” she asked concerned as he came back with the bottle and two flutes. “You said yesterday that London was unaffordable.”

“It’s comparative,” he assured her. “Besides we’re celebrating.”

“We are?” She looked uncertain.

He liked that, but quickly explained. “Yes. I got excellent A-Levels. A’s right across the board.”

Her face cleared. “Of course you did! That certainly deserves celebrating even if you are a little delayed.”

“Eight years,” he said.

Her smile got wider. “That long? One bottle will certainly not be enough!”

The room filled up with a mix of brightly clothed tourists and single business travellers wearing suits. They finished the wine and ordered a second bottle. Christine went to the bar this time. Lester couldn’t help noticing that the bottle she returned with cost at least twice as much as the one he’d selected, itself not cheap, but he didn’t comment. Nor, to be fair, did she seem to expect him to. 

A pleasant hazy buzz settled on the evening. They talked about films and music. Nothing deep or controversial that might mar the mood. There was a sense of anticipation – a Christmas Eve feeling full of might-haves and what-ifs. Their glances caught and held.

Christine suggested that they go to his room. Lester readily agreed. 

He carried the bottle and opened doors for her as she balanced their full glasses in either hand much as she done the day before when they first met. Had it only been 24 hours? They climbed the stairs with exaggerated care and badly supressed laughter.

She made it to his room without spilling a drop. “Success!” she crowed and promptly splashed the sides of both glasses as she placed them clumsily on the table. Liquid dripped down her wrist. She reached out with her tongue and cat-lapped it up. Lester’s stomach contracted with desire.

Lester had always been neat but Christine folded her clothes with more care than anyone he had ever seen. She lined her shoes up neatly by door. He imagined she was the same in all aspects of life measuring, sifting and carefully analysing everything in case it was hostile. He recognised the same trait in himself without the expectation of hostility. He wanted to say something reassuring but knew it would be unwelcome.

A streetlight slanted its beam through the open-curtained window and threw shadows highlighted by the glow of the bedside lights. The cheap pine furniture took on an air of rustic romance.

She kept the pearls on. That was Lester’s lasting memory. Cream pearls against honey skin. 

He fingered the beads carefully and asked the question he’d been unable to earlier. “Who bought you the necklace?”

She fixed him with her direct gaze. “I bought it for myself.”

“I’m sorry.”

She looked impatient. “Don’t be. I knew what I wanted and I could afford to buy it.”

“That’s not really the point.”

The impatience faded to a sort of intense concentration. She ran her tongue across her lips before replying. “But isn’t it better to have exactly what you’ve want then the wrong thing chosen by someone else? No matter how good the intentions.”

“Depends on the giver and the gift,” he replied.

She lay back against the pillows, flirtatious now. “Which would you rather? They do say it’s better to give than to receive.”

He turned and kissed her lightly. “In this instance? I’m more interested in a mutual exchange.”

Cool fingers traced the line of his spine and came to rest on his buttocks. She dug her nails in but not hard. “I think we can manage that.”

He didn’t have condom. He didn’t make a habit of picking up women and this encounter certainly hadn’t been planned. No matter, they could improvise with hands and mouths. He wanted to caress the smooth mounds of her breasts and explore the taut lines of her belly and the softness between her thighs. He wanted to feel her hands wrapped around his cock. He wanted to make her breathless, then wordless, then incoherently babbling with pleasure. He wanted to make love to her. Fucking could wait. He wanted to do that too, but it could come later. They could explore each other’s bodies first. 

“It’s alright,” she gasped, shifting slightly. “I’ve got something we can use.”

Fucking then. That was fine. More than fine. She fumbled a couple of times unrolling the condom. He tried not to be pleased that she clearly wasn’t as in control as she appeared.

Afterwards she lay quietly against his shoulder, eyes shut, hair half-covering her face. Lester watched her wondering if she’d fall asleep. He hoped so. He liked to think of her waking in the morning, hair mussed and imperfect. They could walk to the river and breakfast on croissants. 

She shifted, opened her eyes and sat up in one fluid movement. Reaching out she drained the dregs of her glass and poured the rest of the wine between them. Lester took the glass although at this point he would rather have had water.

“Thank you,” he said. It seemed to be expected even though he wasn’t quite sure what he was thanking her for. 

She acknowledged the words with a dip of her lashes. “No, thank you.”

For a while they sat in silence. Christine’s face was turned to the window staring intently into the night sky. It was too cloudy for stars. Eventually she turned to face him again.

“What will you do with the money?”

“The money?” Lester repeated. “What money?”

Then he remembered.

She spoke lightly. “The money from the bet. It must be in the thousands by now with all those boys taking a punt over the years.”

He fingers clenched around the glass whitening knuckles. It took him a moment to be sure he could control his voice. “You think that’s what this was about? Winning a bet?”

She looked uncomfortable then rallied. “Don’t be embarrassed. I don’t mind. I know it wasn’t just the money but you did say that you weren’t rich. Shagging me could be a month’s deposit on a decent flat. Not to mention the kudos of succeeding where everyone else has failed.”

“And what was in it for you apart from a pity fuck?” A sick feeling settled into his stomach. 

“Don’t be like that,” she said. “You know I fancied you from the moment I saw you. That wasn’t a lie. This way we get to be both gift and giver – like we talked about earlier.” She sounded happier now, as if they were on solid ground and speaking the same language. “I want you to put me forward for a job at the Ministry. That way we both get something we want.”

“And what makes you think I have any influence there?”

It was a token protest at best. Christine didn’t even pretend to consider the question.

“Everyone knows that’s why you’re here. Why else would you hang out with a bunch of students? I bet you even had a list.” 

Lester said nothing. He watched as she slid out of the bed and began to dress. She moved as gracefully and as efficiently as she had the night before pulling on lace knickers and catching the back clasp of her bra without fumbling. Finally she buttoned up her dress and ran fingers through her hair. It fell into place framing her lovely face. She came back to sit beside him on the bed. “Isn’t that right? You are here to look at potential recruits.”

He tried not to sound bitter. “Apparently everyone knows.”

She made a move to take his hand but he moved it away. Frustrated she turned the move into an angry gesture. “Yes, everyone knows. The same way everyone knows who I am, even though you pretended not to. Was I meant to be flattered by that? That you thought me so unobservant?”

“I never thought that.” That was true. There was more he could say but there was no point.

“Good. Then we’re both winners.” She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, soft again now and enticing. This time he didn’t move away. “Thank you, James. For last night and for whatever might take place in the future. This doesn’t have to be a one-off especially if we end up working together. We could be good together.”

“Goodbye Chris,” he said.

“Christine,” she amended rising again. “You were right about that.”

He watched from the window as she left the hotel. He’d offered to walk her home but she said not to bother that she could call a cab. She could certainly afford one.

Apparently now so could he.

*

Will and Simon were waiting for him at a coffee house along High Street. Will’s face was a discreet question but Simon outright asked. “Don’t even pretend innocence. Are you now £2000 the richer or when it came to it did she bite your cock off?”

Lester rolled his eyes. “Not any richer.”

Simon laughed. “Cockless, then, like the rest of us. That’s twenty you owe to the fuck fund. Damn, I really thought you were in with a chance, especially when I heard you were meeting her last night. I just hope it’ll be worth it for whoever wins the prize - poor bastard. She’ll probably insist on marriage first.”

Will glanced with exasperated affection at his brother. “With an attitude like that you don’t deserve to get laid, Simon. Not ever. Now go and do something useful like opening a book.”

Simon winked. “He loves me really.” He shook hands with Lester. “Good to see you again, James,” he said and added, “Try not to become a total suit.” He hugged Will. “And you, keep our inheritance intact. I’d hate to have to go and get a real job.”

Lester sipped his coffee. It was half-cold and he suspected came out of a large catering tin. He would be glad to get home. Will returned from seeing his brother out and looked at him questioningly.

“So did you get what you wanted? Or more to the point, since we know you didn’t score, what you needed?”

“Yes,” said Lester and didn’t elaborate.

He wondered what Christine would say when she heard. Would she care? Probably, he thought, but not for the right reasons.

*

The hum of the train soothed him as did the slow changing landscape of river, fields and houses. He crossed off the stations going into London, there was Didcot, Reading, Maidenhead, Slough. Opposite him, Will read _The Sunday Times_ , scattering segments of the weekend supplements on the table as he went. Lester pulled out his notebook and made a few annotations. Six of the names were easily disposed of. One remained stubbornly blank. He stared at it for a long time and then stared out of the window again without really seeing anything. Finally, as the train passed through Royal Oak and started slowing for its final stop at Paddington he picked up his pen and began to write.


End file.
